


softly, softly

by threadoflife



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Chatting & Messaging, Fluff, Gift Fic, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Shmoop, Skype, seriously i nearly killed all my teeth with this, sherlock is gone for a bit and john pines sfm oh god, talking over skype
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 14:29:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11969322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threadoflife/pseuds/threadoflife
Summary: They were back to grinning at each other, embarrassingly enough: a whole five seconds of terrifying delight. John wanted to reach out and smooth his thumb over the screen, behind which Sherlock’s face was locked. It was a bit pixelled, now, the connection likely slowing down. Christ, John wanted to be there with him; or he wanted Sherlock here; it didn’t really matter. He just wanted Sherlock, location be damned.Fuck. Fuck, he had it bad.





	softly, softly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SwissMiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Way to a Man's Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7256473) by [SwissMiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/pseuds/SwissMiss). 



> this is a gift fic for SwissMissing: for her fic "The Way to a Man's Heart," in which Sherlock is in Helsinki for a while and they Skype nearly every night. A delightful fic, so GOOD, it will make you giggle and tear up and feel entirely whole and warm and good.
> 
> I ranted about this scene ("We Skyped every bloody night that week you were in Helsinki") in the comments and then couldn't help myself and had to write it down. BECAUSE IT'S JUST SO GORGEOUS AND SILLY AND THESE TWO??? OH MY GOOOOD
> 
> Go read the fic!!!! <3

The first night John settles in to chat with Sherlock over Skype, he makes himself comfortable on the couch.

He’d considered moving to the bedroom, sure their chat wouldn’t be short-lived, but the implications of that had been too much, after all: if he fell asleep to Sherlock talking—which would not be the first time it happened—and it happened in the bed, how would he feel about that if he woke up in the morning with his laptop screen still showing Sherlock’s Skype window the first thing his bleary eyes would see? It would be too intimate, he’d decided. Of course, he thought of Sherlock mostly first thing in the morning anyway, but the implications of this in particular…

Anyway, the couch was halfway comfortable; and relatively close to Sherlock’s bedroom. In the privacy of the empty flat, John could admit to himself that he felt better spending his nights on the couch being somewhat closer to Sherlock’s bedroom, as if he were closer to Sherlock himself that way. He wouldn’t admit this out loud to anyone else, but being alone and after two glasses of wine, he could admit it to himself, at least.

He tried not to brighten up too much when he saw Sherlock’s face, finally, on the screen. Of course he failed, but he wasn’t the only one: Sherlock grinned right back at him, wide and sweet, and there were worse things, John decided, worse things than this. They chatted about everything and nothing: Sherlock went on a tirade detailing the case so far, all he’d found and all he knew he’d yet find, told John about the suspect and the local police—as idiotic as London’s—and the weather, and John listened, eagerly, sipping from his glass until he’d killed three quarters of the bottle. When Sherlock settled into a natural pause, then, John idly proposed a theory or two based on Sherlock’s ramblings, and off they were again, debating back and forth about potential motives and their suspect’s M.O., trading chuckles and giggling.

As that conversation ultimately came to an end, John was pleasantly buzzed, warm and content, and he settled back onto the couch and pulled the laptop onto his chest. Sherlock had briefly excused himself to the bathroom, and John gazed idly at the dimmed screen before him, taking in the bits of the generic hotel room he could make out. He could only just see the edge of Sherlock’s bed and a chair in the corner, over which his coat was thrown. Narrowing his eyes, John stared at it intently. Seeing Sherlock’s coat in a strange room in a foreign country and not their flat was distinctly wrong: like a piece blatantly not fitting into a puzzle. The sight made something thick in his throat swell and settle there, a kind of ache that also grew behind his ribs, hollow and bittersweet. He tried to swallow. The ache only intensified.

The sudden noise coming from the speakers, distorted, drew John out of his contemplation. He blinked and tried to focus, eyes darting back to the centre of the screen, where Sherlock had suddenly appeared again.

John’s mouth went dry. “Hi,” he managed.

Sherlock had changed into his sleeping clothes. His hair was tousled from hurrying into them, a complete disarray of curls around his face. John couldn’t see all of his face—only the lamp beside the bed was on, casting a dim glow from the side of the screen shadowing half of Sherlock’s face—but he could see how the lower half was rounder than it usually was, because of Sherlock’s chins. He sat tall on the bed with the laptop before him, screen tilted back and camera catching him from below, giving John a perfect view of his chins folding underneath, softening his jawline. The t-shirt Sherlock was wearing was a size too big for him, sliding a bit too much to the right, revealing more of his neck and a bit of his shoulder, as well as a hint of his collarbone.

In the shadow of the lamp, John could see that Sherlock’s mouth was parted a little. His mouth was even fuller like this, its generous shape emphasised through the darkness. His eyes seemed to be half-closed, though John couldn’t really tell. His lashes looked thick and long, laying like soot on his cheeks.

Sherlock looked terribly young like this: young, and beautiful, and so inaccessible, countries away from John.

The thought sobered him. He sighed, a heavy exhalation through his nose, and smiled a half-smile at Sherlock. “Hi,” he repeated, and his voice came out much rougher, much lower than before. He cleared his throat. “I’ll probably kip in a moment. Been a long day.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said after a beat of silence. John watched, mesmerised, as the shadowy line of his mouth curved up in a teasing smile. “Old men need their sleep, after all. I understand.”

“Oi,” John faux-complained. “I’ll have you know you’re not that much younger than I am, Mr Holmes.”

Though they each could not see clearly, John knew the moment their eyes met: they both started laughing, silly and delighted with themselves and each other; John shook the laptop on his chest with his giggles while Sherlock’s chuckling rumbled out through the speakers, so close to John’s chest.

John had the absurd thought then: how precious it was, to have Sherlock’s laughter so close to him. He wondered, briefly, what it would feel like against his chest for real—Sherlock’s breath, warm, and his smiling lips, touching John’s bare skin.

John shivered.

“All right then,” Sherlock said, at last, when their laughter died down. “I’ll let you go. Don’t want to be held responsible for stealing your precious nocturnal hours.”

They’re yours, John almost said. They’re yours, if you want.

He caught himself. “Wouldn’t be the first time you had me up all night,” he said. God, even that sounded wrong. Did it sound wrong? Or was he just paranoid? Was that the wine? It must be the wine.

“…. Yes,” Sherlock agreed.  
  
Face flushing, John cleared his throat again. Yeah, it was the wine. God, he’d have less of it tomorrow night, when—if—they talked. Would they talk, tomorrow night?

“What about tomorrow, then?” John asked. “Change of plans? Do you have a late stake out or anything…?”

“No,” Sherlock said, aghast. He seemed to be staring down into the camera very intensely. “No, I don’t. We could—that is, if you wanted, we could—”

“Yes,” John said, in a rush. God, look at him, he was already smiling again—he was such a fool. Such a fool for Sherlock Holmes. “Yeah, of course.”

They were back to grinning at each other, embarrassingly enough: a whole five seconds of terrifying delight. John wanted to reach out and smooth his thumb over the screen, behind which Sherlock’s face was locked. It was a bit pixelled, now, the connection likely slowing down. Christ, John wanted to be there with him; or he wanted Sherlock here; it didn’t really matter. He just wanted Sherlock, location be damned.

Fuck. Fuck, he had it bad.

“You’re all distorted,” Sherlock murmured, after a pause. “Connection is dying down.”

“Yeah.” John’s voice was hushed. He couldn’t really help it. He clutched the laptop tightly with his left hand, his knuckles white. He couldn’t reach out. Sherlock would know he’d done it. God, but he wanted to. “We should probably stop.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, and the evening couldn’t grow any worse for John: Sherlock yawned, then, a long, deep, jaw-cracking yawn, and while he had his eyes closed and his hand before his mouth, John just stared at this silly, impossible man, smiling stupidly.

Sherlock didn’t catch him, fortunately. They broke off shortly afterwards, with murmured goodbyes and lingering gazes. The moment the laptop was shut off, John felt the unsettling silence of an empty 221b without Sherlock all around him. He breathed it in for two minutes before he got up, deposited the laptop on the couch table, and went to the bathroom to piss and brush his teeth. When he padded back into the living room on bare feet, he shut off all the lights and settled back onto the couch, pulling the blanket he’d brought down with him over his body.

He stared into the darkness for a while, restless and fidgety. It occurred to him, then, that he’d never asked Sherlock if he’d eaten that day. He didn’t usually need to check in on Sherlock’s eating habits anymore, as Sherlock had taken, with religious dedication, to eating with John every night, without a fault. Now, without John there… would he fall back into his old habits?

It didn’t take an entire five minutes that John already had his phone in his hands.

He had two texts. A smile on his face unfurled, slow and soft.

> –Your theory with the wire wasn’t too bad. I shall think on it. Good night. SH–
> 
> –Yes, I did have dinner. Stop worrying. SH–

Staring at Sherlock’s initials in the darkness, John finally allowed himself: his thumb brushed over the S and the H, softly, softly.

It would be a long couple days.


End file.
